To the Glory of Tír na nÓg
by Grand Phoenix
Summary: The Neuroi aren't the only threat the 501st must face. Unknown and unseen it roams the base, branding them their doom and waiting for the perfect moment to strike. And all the while Minna watches, repulsed and completely at its mercy. Sometimes, the hardest choices are made not amid the heat of battle, but within the storm of oneself. [Season 1 retelling with folklore elements]
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: Started out as a bash fic thanks to the ending in S1-E8, then I started reading Michael Swanwick's "The Dragons of Babel" and decided to throw some folklore elements in. I haven't done a "revenge fic" - as I call it - since "Agony", but, like its predecessor's conception, it's not the characters I hate. It's what they've done that I feel they deserve some sort of comeuppance._

_So, Minna, be grateful you're not very high on my list of Biggest Dumbasses. Jaina Proudmoore still holds the number one spot._

* * *

**To the Glory of ****Tír na nÓg**

* * *

**1.**

"You left that cup out again."

She takes a sip and peers over the rim. It sits close to the edge of the table between them, inconspicuous and gleaming white in the slant of moonlight. There are blue, swirling patterns on it, what some would think what a breath of wind might look like given form. It's scratched on one side and the lip is chipped, but nonetheless it is a beautiful porcelain cup of Britannian design.

It is empty.

So, too, is the chair, pulled out and waiting. Its shadow stretches, reaching for the door.

Minna nods. "So I did." Another sip.

"Who would you be expecting?" Mio asks. "Eila and Sanya and Miyafuji are on their night flight, and everyone else is either getting ready for bed or are already asleep."

"I know."

"If you want to invite someone, you should ask when it's early. I am only awake in case we detect the Neuroi again in their presence."

"You were the only person I could think of who would be interested," she says, and quashes the temptation to join her friend in studying the empty chair. "Among others."

"Oh? Who would that be?" Mio pulls the box of tea toward her, pries it open and holds a fresh bag between her thumb and forefinger. "What did you say this was?"

"Earl Gray."

"Peculiar." She sets it back inside and closes the box. "I think Perrine or Lynnette would be interested to be in your company. It would almost be like they were back at home, away from the Neuroi. Away from everything. Peace is a luxury we must fight to keep, lest it be torn from our grasp."

"Hmmm." A third sip. "Yes," she says. "We must all do our parts. If we don't, who will?" She dips her head low, falling into the rippling surface of her drink, feeling eyes on her. Boring into her, like a Neuroi's beam slicing through fragile, steel battleships, exposing its innards for all to see.

It makes her nervous and ill at ease, and she fights the urge to fidget in her seat.

Mio taps a finger against the table. "But in all seriousness, who would you invite? Other than me, that is. Let's say, hypothetically, the Neuroi threat ended today and you want to celebrate, but there's only enough tea for one more person."

Minna rises and leans back, encircling the cup between the folds of her hands. She takes a moment to think. "Well," she begins, "I would certainly love to invite Perrine and Lynette, but I believe they would want to return to Gallia as soon as possible and meet their families again. The same would apply to Eila and Sanya, but it would have to be one or the other and I wouldn't want to leave either out of the festivities. Trude would most likely go and spend time with her sister at the hospital, so I would never catch her in time. And everyone else," she shrugs and smiles, "I don't know. I want them all to come."

"Understandable. But you _have_ to choose someone, no ifs, ands, or buts. You don't want all that tea to go to waste, and you still have to decide what snack you should have to go with it."

"Then that makes things much easier on me. I," she takes this chance to drain her cup dry and quell the anxious beating of her heart, "I wouldn't invite anyone."

Mio's eyebrows shoot up. "No one?"

"No one among the Strike Witches."

"Then who? You would be breaking your own rule by interacting with the flight crew. Wouldn't you be lonely?"

She shakes her head. "Far from it. I have an old friend who has always wanted to try Britannian tea."

"Oh?"

"Yes. She is a voracious girl, hungry for knowledge and good cuisine. She is—how I do put this—_very_ strong-willed; stubborn, actually, if you want my honest opinion. What she wants she will get, but she is a creature who exercises extraordinary patience…unnervingly so, and you wouldn't know it if you spoke to her."

"I'm guessing she's from Karlsland?" Mio asks, a small, wry smile on her lips.

"You could say. She is…close but far away. When I think about her, I always feel as though she's right next to me." Finally, reluctantly, Minna looks at the empty chair.

The Fetch stares back at her, innocent and smiling. Her hands, the same pale ones with the long, skinny fingers as her own, beat a mindless tune on the table.

Minna wishes she had more tea to drown in.

"Well," says Mio, drinking the last of the liquid, "once the Neuroi threat has been neutralized in this region, you will be able to see your friend again. She sounds like a handful—"

(She has no idea.)

"But that's how all the Karlsland girls are, aren't they?"

(Not like the Fetch. There is no one in the entire world that is like the Fetch.)

"I would say the same about certain Fuso Witches," Minna counters playfully, and tears her gaze away from her mirror image.

Mio laughs. "A girl after my own heart! Then perhaps, when this is all over, you would like to introduce me to her?"

The Fetch grins. She puts her elbows up on the table and folds her hands under her chin, already knowing the answer.

"Of course," says Minna. "She is always eager to meet new people, but only if they are worthy of her attention."

"Then it would seem I have more work cut out for me!" Mio gets to her feet and pushes the chair, grabs the sword propped next to her and secures it in its place on her back. "Thank you for the tea. I will stay awake a little longer and keep an eye on the radar until Miyafuji and the others return. You should get some sleep; you look shot."

"I will, as soon as I put everything away."

"Very well. I bid you good night."

"Good night, Mio."

The Fetch's eyes follow the Major to the door, her smile slow and lazy.

* * *

When silence reigns once more, the Fetch turns around and faces her. "Pour us a spot, would we? We are quite thirsty."

Minna doesn't wait. She grabs the kettle and fills the empty cup to the brim. It has gone cold, but this doesn't bother her twin. The other tips the porcelain back and makes a pleasant sound. "Delicious~ we can taste the bergamot. That is what Earl Gray is made from, yes? Bergamot?"

"It is."

"We like it. Better this than that black tea we serve now and then. Much too sweet."

"We make do with what we have. We don't always get bergamot in our shipments."

"Such a shame." She gestures toward the kettle with the cup. "Another?"

"Already?"

"It's as the good Major says, we shouldn't let all this tea go to waste—especially to an _old friend_. Would we not agree?" She shakes the cup and arches a brow.

"If I had things my way, I wouldn't be kowtowing to you. I wouldn't be doing any of this."

"'I'? 'You'? We are mistaken. We are one. We are eternal." She frowns. "Where is our tea?"

Minna glowers. The Fetch shakes the cup again.

(Such a cold, uncaring, narcissistic bitch. Such a silver-tongued snake, a horned devil with crooked halo. She aches to throw those words in her face and watch her writhe and howl and hiss as it burns through her skin like acid.

(She wants to be rid of her, but she cannot. Someone must lead the Strike Witches against the Neuroi.

(They can't do it alone, and the Fetch knows this.)

She sighs and refills the cup.

"Good girl."

"Fuck you."

The Fetch laughs. It is sweet and pure and melodious, and it scrapes against her brain like a rusty nail.


	2. Chapter 2

**2.**

"And so the prodigal daughter and her friends return, safe and sound," says the Fetch, slowly and loudly clapping in her ears, and Minna resists the urge to clout her over the head. The shade turns to her, smiling. "We are very glad."

"Like you care." In the distance, she sees Miyafuji, Eila and Sanya descend toward the runway.

"We wound us!" she says, folding her hands atop her chest, wearing an expression of mock hurt. "We care very much about the well-being of our fellow Witches…from the flattest chest to the biggest pair of inflatables! Their integrity must be preserved—"

"You will do no such thing."

Feigning innocence. "What thing?"

"You know damn well what it is you intend to do."

"We are a harmless shade! What could we possibly do?" A challenging light enters those eyes. Goading her. Mocking her. "We cannot hurt us. Only a fool would dare do so."

"I am no fool."

"Then don't hesitate. Hit us. Strangle us. Do anything our heart desires."

A hand falls on her shoulder. Minna tries to push her away, but the Fetch is nimble, the Fetch is quick and the feeling of sharp, pointed nails biting through the fabric and into skin elicits a painful cry that she is too slow to stop.

The Fetch leans in close, the air leaden with predatory malice. Minna fights to pull away – but she cannot, for the grip is strong, a vise that, if she were made from anything other than flesh and bone, can crush the hardest diamond to dust; mortal man cannot hope to match her strength.

She feels a pair of lips graze the shell of her ear, involuntarily shuddering as warm breath tickles the hairs around it and sets her skin ablaze. "Go ahead. Do our worst. Our suffering tastes like candied sweets~" Her tongue slips out and slides up along the curve.

A sob chokes it way out and Minna struggles harder, aroused and disgusted and ashamed. "Let me go!"

"'Me' again?" The Fetch chuckles and sinks her talons deeper. Something warm and wet begins to spread. "Perhaps if we were Mio, we would enjoy it more?"

Fury, white-hot and volcanic, ignites, like flint striking on coal.

"Don't you ever" slam an elbow into her stomach, "speak that name" turn around, grab her by the neck, "in that tone of voice" and push her against the wall, fist raised, "_AGAIN!_ God help me, I will kill you—!"

"Impossible!" The Fetch cackles and puts her hands over Minna's wrist. "It's impossible! We don't have the guts!"

Then her head snaps back and hits the wall.

The pain registers immediately. Minna lets go and stumbles back, clutching her smarting jaw with the hand that held the Fetch. Doubled over, eyes closed, a string of Karlsland obscenities rends the silence like a cleaver.

"Why do we even bother?" says the Fetch. She licks her blood-soaked hand and pushes off the wall. "Our suffering only further empowers us."

"I can do so much worse," Minna gasps, straightening her posture and shaking the sting from her hand.

"But we can't. We are not capable, and we never will be." The Fetch reaches out and touches the area by her mouth. The slightest graze causes Minna to wince, moisture pricking the corners of her vision. The mirror giggles. "Want some?" she asks, offering her hand. Blood clings to her fingernails and in the arch between thumb and forefinger.

"No," says Minna, and pushes the Fetch away. Gingerly she feels her wounded shoulder, draws the hand back and grimaces. The fabric is soaked through, and she feels a stray bead redden the sleeve as it runs down her arm.

The girls will definitely notice.

Miyafuji, with her keen sight and gentle disposition, will see and worry and the questions will start to fly.

_Will they think me mad? That the work is becoming too much?_ One look at the Fetch—smiling innocently and eyes shining with mischief—makes her shake her head. _Who am I kidding? I already _am_._ "Listen," she says, "I'm going down below and get this healed. _You_ stay where you are and keep those hands to yourself. Do you understand?"

"Clear as a bell on a summer day," says the Fetch, and licks her lips. "We will not relocate. Cross our heart and hope to…" She trails off, laughing.

"You had better not." She opens the door and takes her leave, the eyes of the Fetch ever present on her back.

"We will not. No, bonnie dear, we will not."

* * *

By the time she enters the hangar their Striker Units have been locked and put away. Disappointed and feeling the blood continue to well and stain the uniform, Minna heads for the next place she has in mind.

She breathes a sigh of relief when she finds Miyafuji, Sanya, and Eila seated at the kitchen table, porcelain cups and coasters steaming with hot liquid in front of them. Her stomach lurches; she hopes it isn't tea.

"Commander!" says Miyafuji.

"Hello, Commander," says Sanya.

"Good evening," she says. Then, hesitantly, "What are you drinking?"

"More of this fish oil shit," says Eila, raising the cup to her lips. "Ah, no offense, Miyafuji, but it is. Anyway, the target has been eliminated."

"Yes, we saw," her and Mio and the Fetch, arms folded on the guardrail and looking bored. "You all did a very good job. Especially you, Sanya; without you, the success of this operation would not have been made possible."

"Thank you," says the Orussian, head bowed and blushing. "You are too kind."

_Like hell I am._

Minna whirls around. There is nobody there.

"Commander, what's wrong?" Miyafuji asks.

_I don't have a kind bone in my body._

Shut up, she wants to scream. Go away. Leave. Don't you dare get these girls involved.

_It's too late for that._ And it is the truth.

Her heartbeat sounds too loud in her ears, the blood in her veins roaring too fiercely.

"Commander?" says Eila.

"It's nothing," says Minna, turning back to them with a disarming smile. "I thought I heard something."

_Yes, that was the sound of my guilt echoing across space and time._

She tries not to grit her teeth, but fails. Everything hurts, not just in her shoulder but in her heart.

Suddenly, Miyafuji gasps. "Commander, you're bleeding!" She rises from her seat and goes around the table to her.

"You're bleeding?" Sanya asks.

"Where?" says Eila.

Minna glances at her shoulder, frowns. "So I am," she grumbles. "But you needn't worry about it. It's just a scratch—"

"Take off your jacket," says Miyafuji. "I need to see how deep it is."

"I said it's nothing to worry about—"

"Please let me! I can tell it's bothering you by the look on your face. If we don't get this treated it might get infected and everyone will start worrying about you."

_You already are. _"Miyafuji-san," Minna says, but the plea in the younger girl's face is strong and persistent, just like the Fetch's, and it sickens and angers her.

A pang of shame resonates in her chest following that thought. Miyafuji is nothing like the Fetch. Miyafuji cares for everyone in the base, her magic is used to heal injuries and protect others from the alien arsenal the Neuroi employ. She smiles and laughs, but they are filled with girlish youth and joy.

To compare her to that abomination would be to condemn her.

Minna sighs. "I'm sorry," she says. "I'll let you look, but please make no mention of this to anyone, especially the Major. It'll just be between the four of us. That's an order."

"How bad can it be?" asks Eila, shrugging.

Minna doesn't answer. She unbuttons the jacket, shrugs it off and lets it fall to the floor. Miyafuji gasps again as she takes in the glaring red stain against the stark white of her shirt. That, too, is peeled away and pools at her feet, and she stands before them in her bra, unable to stop the fire rising in her cheeks.

Miyafuji leans in to inspect. The color drains from her face. "That's not a scratch!" she exclaims.

"Let me see!" says Eila, and she rises from the table and goes to stand next to her fellow Witch.

"How bad is it?" Sanya asks, and then she is up on her feet and joining them.

"Goddamn! How did you get that? It looks a hawk ripped into you!" says Eila, staring wide-eyed at the wound.

"Why should it matter how I got it?" says Minna. "And a hawk didn't do this to me," she lies. "It was a Neuroi."

"Oh sure, I _remember_ the bird-shaped Neuroi with talons the size of the _Ural Mountains_ that can tear a Witch to _meaty, bloody pieces!_" says Eila. "Gee, I wonder what happened to it!"

"Eila, please," says Sanya, "the Commander doesn't need this. Maybe it is a scratch."

"That's because the blood's still pumping out of her, of course you can't tell."

"But she's right," says Miyafuji. "It doesn't matter where or how she got it. One of you go grab some rags to clean with and bandages we can put over to staunch the flow from the infirmary. I'll close the wound with my magic."

"I'll get them," says Eila, already moving. "Just focus on her." Then she is gone.

"Here, Commander," says Sanya; she grabs the chair closest to her and brings it over. "Sit down so Miyafuji-san can get a better angle healing you."

"It's fine, Sanya, I don't—"

"It would be easier for me if you would, Commander," says Miyafuji. "You're taller than me and I don't want to have to hold your shoulder and hurt it more so I can reach you."

"Alright, alright, I'll sit. Just…be gentle, okay? It hurts when I move it."

"I promise. We'll have it tended to and done in a few minutes."

"Thank you." She meant it.

So Minna sits, wincing as her shoulder grazes the back of the chair, and allows Miyafuji to lay her hands below the wound. They feel soft and warm, and the magic that emanates from them is a soothing balm. She can feel muscle and skin reform and knit back together, like ants coming to and from their hill.

"How does it feel, Commander?" Sanya asks. "Is it any better?"

She tries not to roll her shoulders. "It's itchy, and I want to scratch it, but that would just make it more irritated." To Miyafuji, she says, "It doesn't feel like it's bleeding anymore."

"It shouldn't be," says the younger Witch. "All that's left is to wait for Eila."

"No need to." The aforementioned girl walks in, rags in one hand and a roll of bandages in the other. "Here," she tosses the cloths to Miyafuji, who catches them. "I brought plenty if you need it."

The blood is wiped off and a number of the rags made wet from the faucet and reddened used and dropped to the floor. When Miyafuji is sure that the wound has ceased bleeding, she pulls forth a length of the adhesive.

It hovers over the wound when Eila stops her. "You see? It doesn't look like a scratch _at all_." She points at the holes. They are arrayed in an arch from the slope of the neck to the knobby bone where the shoulder begins.

"I didn't mean that literally," Minna says testily.

"Well you sure made it sound like it."

"It's nothing serious."

"I don't know," Miyafuji says, staring uneasily at the marks. "It almost looks like…."

"Commander," says Sanya, "did you do this to yourself?"

_Of course I did._

"No!" Minna exclaims, and suddenly she is cornered and claustrophobic. Fenced in on both sides and with their eyes upon her, she feels more in the company of demons that can glean every thought pure and sinful from the merest gesture, the slightest twitch of muscle.

_The lies perched on my virgin lips._

"What would make you think that?" She looks between Sanya and Miyafuji. "No, really, I want to know what gave you the idea that this is self-inflicted. Let me hear it."

They shirk away nervously. "W-We meant no offense, Commander!" says Miyafuji, hands raised in placating manner.

"Please don't take it the wrong way," says Sanya, "but how else could you have gotten this?"

"I thought the how or the where didn't matter."

"But now it does," says Eila, studying the inflamed skin. "If you're doing this to yourself, then do like Trude did and take some time off."

"I can't."

"Who says? The Major can handle things while you're gone."

"She won't know what to do with all the paperwork I have to deal with everyday. And there are plenty of other things I can't expect her to handle on her own while we have the Neuroi breathing down our necks."

"Like what?"

_Oh, I don't know: a doppelganger all ten of you have seen at one point or another and has you marked for death?_

"Look, there's nothing wrong with me," says Minna. "I'm not suicidal and I'm not going to leave my post. Do I make myself clear?"

"But Commander," says Sanya, "we're only—"

"Do you or don't you?" She levels a stern glare at all three of them.

Sanya and Miyafuji wilt beneath it, but nonetheless they nod their agreement. Eila holds onto it, eyes narrowed suspiciously, and there are a hundred ways Minna can choose from to wipe that look off her face. Spit on her, slap her, punch her, either one would do. _Just stop staring at me like THAT._

Then, finally, she sighs. "Fine, it's your call. But think about what I said, alright? We have to look out for each other and the last thing we want is something bad happening to you."

"I appreciate the thought. Now, Miyafuji-san, if you'll be so kind enough to get this taken care of? I don't want it opening up when I go to sleep."

"Ah, I almost forgot! Sit still, I'll wrap up real tight!" She steps forward and begins to apply the bandage to the wound, wrapping it over and under Minna's arm.

"Geez, how can you forget?" says Eila. "The roll's right in your hand." She looks at Sanya, who is staring over their Commander's shoulder to the hall beyond. "What's wrong?"

She jumps, snapped from her reverie. "Oh! Um, I…thought I saw something."

Suddenly, Miyafuji's hands feel much colder.

"You're just tired. We'll go to sleep once we're done here."

"There!" says Miyafuji. She cuts the bandage and ties the ends of the strip in a knot. "How does it feel, Commander? Is it snug enough or do you want me to loosen it a little?"

Minna nods, but it weighs as much as the world. "No, it's alright. Thank you."

* * *

When everything has been put away and the girls retire for the night, she heads straight for her bedroom, jacket draped over her shoulders and the stained rags and undershirt crushed to her chest. Her hand lands on the knob and barely restrained fury throws it open and stops just shy of slamming into the wall.

Sprawled on the bed is the Fetch, her long and naked body glowing in a patch of moonlight. She grins. "Welcome back."

"I told you to mind your own business!" She nearly screams, dropping the load in her arms and kicking it under the bed without a second glance.

"But we did."

"Bullshit! Sanya saw you!"

"Did she? Well, better a shade than a basilisk. Those beasts can _kill_ with a _single glance_."

"And I heard you, too! You were right behind me, whispering those unfounded lies!"

"Lies? Bonnie dear, they are the truth." She slides a hand along the swell of a breast down the pointed tip of a hip, slow and sinuous. "Come. Lay with us. We're quite lonely."

"Being in your arms would be like walking into an iron maiden." But her eyes follow that hand, drink in the skin made sparkling silver, unblemished. Her fists clench and she relishes the bite of nails digging hard and deep.

The Fetch winces, as if physically struck. "Now that's just rude."

"I don't care what you think. Why should I when you don't?" She throws off the jacket and walks around to the other side of the bed.

"Because we're the only ones we have to confide in. We are the only persons we can trust." The Fetch rolls over, just in time to see Minna throw herself onto the mattress, still clad in her undergarments. She puts a hand on her back and brushes the plastic clasp with retracted talons. "The only persons we can love are us."

Minna mumbles and turns on her side, facing the wall.

"What was that?"

"I said you talk too much," Minna says, a little more loudly. She folds her arms over her chest and shivers. The air between them is arctic.

She jumps when the Fetch presses up against her and pulls her close in an iron-clad embrace, feels her bury her face in a waterfall of hair and the comb of fingers running through it. "Now it is us who are lying," the shade purrs.

Minna draws up her knees. "No. I speak the truth."

The Fetch giggles. "'Nothing is true; everything is permitted.' It is why we, and not the good Major, lead the Strike Witches. They are mere children."

"So what does that make me?"

She licks her lips, rubbing the bandage in small circles. "Immortal," she croons, and plants a kiss on the knot.


	3. Chapter 3

**3.**

"Dawn is breaking~ Greet the new day~"

So it is.

The sun breaches the horizon, throwing its first rays of light across the calm surface of the ocean. They barely touch headquarters, but the resultant image before her is reminiscent of dying embers after a campfire has been put out. Its glow is low and deep, buried in the cockles of the center of the earth at the peak of the blue hour when night is about to fall.

It reminds her of the world in _tabula rasa_. Quiet. Serene. Primordial.

Perfect.

Her footprints trail behind her in the sand, some washed away and faded to ghosts by the slacking tide. The breeze is cool and brisk, playing with the folds of her jacket and slipping an invisible hand to fondle the golden swath of cleavage. It is divine, glorious.

Glory.

She hears the sound of a Striker Unit's engines growling, and stops to look up. In the sky a speck is highlighted against the crowning sun, and she follows it as it drifts lower and lower toward the runway, toward the hangar, toward a warm bed and a body made even warmer among its sheets.

In a low and sonorous voice, Minna sings:

"_From the south she came,  
_"_The bird, the warlike bird,  
_"_With whirring wings,  
_"_She wishes to change herself,  
_"_Back to the body of that swift bird,  
_"_She throws away her body in battle."_

The water laps at her feet, cold and refreshing. The wind picks up and blows strands of hair across her eyes.

Mina tucks them behind an ear and grins. "Sanya."

* * *

It is a long walk back to base, and by then the sky is brightening, banishing the moon and the stars to oblivion. The blue hour has come and gone, and so arrives the golden hour.

Her shadow stretches across the wall and glides after her. She pads down the hall, barefoot and tracking sand and water droplets, where the bedrooms await.

The first door she comes across she pushes open. Past the threshold the room is wide and spacious, and the bed is fixed. The _shirasaya_ holding the Major's sword is empty.

Minna runs her tongue over her lips and frowns.

She closes the door and proceeds to the next room. Glides up to the side of the bed and looks down at Shirley, snoring, sprawled out and half-naked, the blankets lying crumpled on the floor. A sheet of paper rises and falls in tandem with her breath. Minna picks it up, places it on the end table, and turns back to the sleeping Witch.

Such a loud girl, oblivious to her surroundings.

She places a hand atop one round, large breast and rubs small circles in the skin, taps a tuneless melody on its swelled curve, brushes a nail along its underside. The other casts a shadow above Shirley's neck, fingers ghosting above her pulse.

Birds chirp. Waves rumble. The wind sighs.

Shirley dreams.

Minna draws her hands back, grunts, and leaves.

She slips into each Witch's room, swift and noiseless like a wraith. She pokes and prods Lynette's chest, relocates Perrine's glasses to a higher place, shuffles Eila's deck of tarot cards (she stops on Death and smiles knowingly), dumps a pot of holly out the window in Trude's room, pockets a carved cat figurine from Sanya's armoire, and gently removes a lock of hair from Yoshika's head with a pair of scissors. A quick peek into Francesca's room and Minna huffs, disappointed but not surprised its occupant is elsewhere.

Then she takes in the whirlwind chaos that is Erica's room. Clothes and cans of tuna and empty cookie tins and candy wrappers provide a haphazard carpet over the floor. In the midst of it all, a human-sized lump mumbles beneath an assortment of T-shirts and underwear.

Her lips draw back in a sneer.

A gleam catches her eye and she turns to meet it: a black cross on a fine silver chain hangs like a wet noodle over the headboard. Glancing at the state the area is in, she closes the distance in three long strides and snatches the fine jewelry into her milk-white grasp. She holds it up to the meager light.

Ah, the Knight's Cross of the Iron Cross, a reward befitting a proud soldier of Karlsland for scoring two-hundred-fifty shoot-downs during the war. It is beautiful and pristine, like a maiden's heart.

"Not hungry enough," says Minna. "Your glory is still so far away," and with a casual flick of her wrist the medal goes flying and becomes lost to the pile of garments at Erica's feet. "But don't fret, it will come when you least expect it."

She is about to make her exit when she stops. She faces Erica once more and stares at her.

A pair of white, laced panties covers her head like the Shroud of Turin.

Slowly, gingerly, she bends down and plucks them from that blonde mop.

They are soft and silky and pure, like a maiden's heart.

Minna looks over her shoulder, out into the hall. Someone is waking up. Soon, they will all be up.

She looks back at the panties again, and grins.

* * *

When she opens her eyes, there is only darkness.

"Wh-What?" She touches her face. "What's going—"

Girlish giggling erupts uncomfortably close by. She freezes.

Fabric. There's some sort of fabric blinding her.

"We're so naughty," purrs the Fetch. "Naughty, dirty, lonely."

"What did you do?" Minna asks slowly. _It's too early for this._

"Take it off. Take it in."

So she does, and she drops the panties onto her lap, recoiling. "What the hell? What—?" A cold, dead weight settles in her stomach. "What is all this?"

An assortment of bras, underwear, and nightshirts of various sizes sit in a wrinkled pile next to her.

"It's what we wanted," says the Fetch, standing off to the side, smirking. "We were bored and had no one to play with. The children were too busy admiring the pictures beneath Ole Lukøje's umbrella to give a care."

"Put these back where they belong!" Minna kicks viciously at the clothes. "They can't go out like that! N-Not without—"

The Fetch presses a finger to her lips, leans forward so that her bust is grazing the bandaged shoulder. "Who's panties do we think we're wearing?" she asks.

"I…I don't know! Why did you put them on me like…like some sort of mask?!" The heat beats off her cheeks in waves, but it feels much too hot for it to be coming off her body. It can't be. It's impossible. It should feel like a goddamn tundra than hell on earth in here.

"Come now, guess."

"I don't care who's they are! Get rid of them!" _Before they find out and get the wrong idea!_

"Oh?" The Fetch tilts her head to the side. "We don't? Not even if these are—oh, we don't know—say…the Major's?" She gauges the shocked reaction and grins. "Yesssss. Don't deny it. We like it, don't we? We picked it out ourselves. 'Tis a step closer to the good Major, if only by the grace of laundered cotton. Of course it's nowhere near the majesty that comes from our touch, and by and far leagues from our creativity. Don't tell us we never considered the notion of stealing the essence of her skin, her hair, her fl—"

Minna snatches her wrist and digs her nails as hard as she can into the skin. At the same time, the Fetch slaps a hand over the unblemished surface of her host's uninjured shoulder, half-moon crescents splayed just so that with the slightest movement can draw blood. The pain in her own arm replicates the bite of a serpent's fangs. "Remember what I said the other night."

"Same to us!" says the Fetch.

"Don't _push me_."

"Aye aye, don't _push us_!" Her eyes shine wildly, her grin a feral flex of muscles and sin.

"Got it?!"

"We gets it, we gets it!"

Minna lets go, and so too does the Fetch. They stare at one another.

"So," says the Fetch, drawing the word out, "what are we going to do?"

"'We'? I did nothing."

A shark-like smile stretches from ear to ear. "Neither did we."

"I don't believe you."

"We don't expect us to. We keep it to ourselves."

"Keep what?"

"Get dressed," says the Fetch. "We have a package to pick up today." She grabs the jacket off the back of the chair and tosses it to Minna. She catches it in mid-air and, as she moves to swing her legs off the bed, she hears something cracks. She bends over.

Between her feet lies a small, black object. She turns it over.

It's a cat figurine with a chipped ear. The missing piece stares back at her from the floor.

"This is Sanya's," Minna says, and she looks at the Fetch. "Why did you take this?"

"Look in the other pockets."

She does, and with mounting confusion glances between the next three items sitting in the cusps of her palms: a sprig of bloody holly, a tarot card depicting Death, and a lock of brown hair braided in twine. "What is all this?"

"Precautions," says the Fetch, "and power."

"This came from Trude's room," says Minna, holding up the holly. "And this card belongs to Eila. But the hair—"

"Is from the head of the prodigal daughter," the Fetch finishes.

"Why?!" She throws them on the bed behind her, gets to her feet and jabs a finger at the Fetch's chest. "Why are you doing this? They've done nothing to you!"

"They have. We just refuse to acknowledge them."

"Like what?"

"We know the answers to that."

"Tell me!"

"No need to. They're glaring right at us. It is the truth."

Minna huffs and turns on her heel. She pulls open a dresser drawer, paws through it and takes out a white T-shirt, to which she pulls on and buttons up. She slips her arms through the sleeves of the jacket, zips it, and adjusts the collar.

She looks at the objects scattered across the mattress, the pile of undergarments standing out on the end like a rainbow-colored mole hill.

"What are we going to do with them?" asks the Fetch.

"This is your doing. Get rid of them."

"Ah, but sweet! that is where we're wrong. We did no such thing."

"Right, and you want me to believe you were still laying in bed with your arms around me, keeping me warm and whispering sweet nothings in my ear so that I might have pleasant dreams?"

"What else is there to do in the middle of the witching hour?"

"I don't have time for this." Minna throws open the door and listens. The girls are awake. Faintly she can hear Trude count off the number of reps of whatever exercise she is doing. The pitter-patter of someone's feet going to and fro is like the scurrying of rodents.

"What about the clothes?" the Fetch asks again.

"I'll take care of them later. Don't touch them, don't move them, don't even _think_ about doing anything to them."

"Very well," the Fetch says morosely.

* * *

When she gets ready to brush her teeth, Minna is surprised to see a blue-green bruise forming on the curve of her jaw.

"Dammit." She touches a finger to it gingerly and clenches her teeth as lightning seesaws back and forth in sporadic bursts. Peering more closely at the mirror, she sees that the area has swelled up slightly. "They're going to notice, aren't they? They're going to ask, and I'm going to have to lie again."

She sighs and gazes upon her reflection. The mirror-girl gazes back, her expression weary. She is bright-eyed, red-haired, fair-skinned, and sharp of chin.

Just like _her_.

She lays her hand flat on the glass, and the mirror-girl responds in kind. She spreads her fingers out as far as they go, and so does the mirror-girl. Then she presses against the surface, and, as though it is mud, her hand sinks through. The pane fits around it like a mold, curling wax-like between the spaces. The mirror-girl encloses her hand over her own.

"Why does this happen to me?" Minna asks aloud. "What did I do to deserve this? I mean, it's not like I asked you to come into my life. I didn't ask for things to be this way, because I didn't, and if I could..." She clenches harder, and so, too, does the mirror-girl.

"If I could, then…."

_—(Karlsland would not have fallen—)_

_—(Kurt would still be alive—)_

_—(The Neuroi would be destroyed—)_

_—(And I would be...)_

_—(Would be...)_

_Except I can't._

"No," she says. "I can't."

_I can't bring it upon myself._

"I can't."

She stares at the sink.

The mirror-girl's hand tugs on her hand. Then again. And again.

Minna pulls it back, and the mirror ripples and quakes a thousand-thousand times. Then it settles and becomes still and glassy once more.

She lifts her head and glares at the mirror-girl, and the mirror-girl glares back.

"Dammit," she hisses. Her fists clench, and it takes all her willpower not to drive them through the glass. Through that bitch's face. "Dammit!"

* * *

Upon returning to the bedroom, Minna sighs and kneads the flesh between her eyes. "Do you even know how to listen?"

The Fetch looks up from staring at the red underwear spinning around her finger. "They're still here. We didn't do anything."

"I told you _not to touch them_."

"So we did." She nods at the twirling garment. "By the way, this is ours."

"Stop that!"

"It smells freshly laundered," says the Fetch. She grabs the other end of the panties, ceasing her ministrations, and brings them up to her face. She inhales deeply. "And it smells of desperation."

"I said stop that!"

"Why are they all red, anyway? Is it to honor those lost in Operation Dynamo? Would it be you are honoring poor Kurt Flachfeld? Or perhaps we are so in heat our menses dyes our maidenhood so none will ever know our only solace lies between our—"

Minna crosses the room and her hand is flying through the air. And just as quickly, the Fetch grabs it before it can strike her face. She waves a disapproving finger, grinning. "Ah-ah! No touchy!"

"Don't you disrespect my people," Minna growls. "Or use Kurt's name in vain. Got that?"

"We didn't."

"Do you understand?"

She laughs. "Like he ever cared."

Her free hand is the next to soar, and the Fetch snatches it, again, as it is about to hit her. Minna grits her teeth, feeling sharp nails pinching the bones below all ten knuckles.

The Fetch lifts her face to Minna's, so close their noses almost touch. "We can't hurt us. Why do we even try?"

"One of these days, I'm going to wipe that fucking grin off your face."

"We're free to try."

"I look forward to it."

"Is that so?"

"It is the truth."

The Fetch giggles. "Liar." She lets go of Minna and leans back on the bed, fingers tangled in the forgotten red undergarment. "When do we leave?"

"You're not coming with me. I don't want to see you for the rest of the day."

"That's old hat. We mean when are we going to get the package?"

"As soon as I get breakfast out of the way; I'm bringing Lynette with me, as she's familiar with this area."

"Mind if we come with?"

"What did I just say?"

She smiles demurely. "Just asking."

"Whatever. I'm going."

"Wait!" says the Fetch, and Minna stops. "We're not going to tell us to mind our business and leave the children in peace?"

"They're not children," Minna scoffs, "and you know better than to ask me that."

"Oh, so we don't care what we do?"

"I never said that."

"That's what it sounds like." She crosses one leg on top of the other.

Minna turns away, feeling a flush rise in her cheeks. "I don't care what you think."

"So you say, _mon ami_," says the Fetch. "So you say."

* * *

The sound of footsteps brings Lynette back to reality, staring out at the open blue sky beyond the garage and lost in her own thoughts. She moves in the direction they are coming from, and sees Minna approaching her. "Good morning, Commander!" she says.

The Commander doesn't respond. She wears a frown and her brow is furrowed, casting a shadow over her pretty face. It is unlike her, Lynette thinks, to look so…despondent?

No, that isn't right. It is as though she is embroiled in a storm and without an umbrella to protect her head, leaving her cold and dark. She appears lost. Numb. Hopeless.

"Commander?" she says. "Are you okay?" What could be troubling her?

Minna blinks and regards her with wide-eyed surprise. It takes Lynette aback, because it's not just the look of one who is so deep in their own world they do not realize what is going upon around them. No, her expression betrays a portrait of agitation riding on the coattails of snappish anger. Worry worms uncomfortably in Lynette's gut, but she does not let it show. She hopes it won't show.

Then it is gone, and Minna smiles (and it is a tired smile). "Good morning, Lynette. I'm sorry, I wasn't paying attention. I was…thinking about the Neuroi. Shall we get going?"

Lynette nods. "I am if you are."

"Good. I could use some fresh air."


	4. Chapter 4

**4.**

"I had the strangest dream today," says Shirley, and stabs her fork through a potato.

Trude glares at her, utensil hovering above the space the potato used to be. "Let me guess: you had a flat chest."

"N-No! I didn't dream that!" She takes a bite and chews thoughtfully, ruminating over the proper choice of words to say. "I dreamed that the Commander came in my bedroom and put a hand around my neck." Swallowing, she adds, "I think she was about to strangle me."

Trude pokes her fork into another potato but does not eat it. Rather she stares at it, almost past it. "What?" Shirley asks. "What's the matter?"

"Maybe this is all a coincidence," says the Lieutenant, "but I dreamed about the Commander, too."

"Oh? What about?"

"You know that pot of holly I have? Well, in my dream the Commander into my room and tore a sprig off the plant. Then she opened the window and dumped the rest of it out. When I woke up, I found this cut on my hand." She holds it out for Shirley to see. A long, inflamed scratch rides up her wrist, starting from the web between the thumb and forefinger. "It was bleeding, too."

"Geez." Grab another potato, bite, chew. Swallow. "What do you think that means?"

"I don't know. We could ask Eila…."

"She's still asleep. Sanya's in there, too."

"Everybody's slacking off," Trude grunts.

"Well, Lynette and the Commander left about…a half-hour ago, I think? Everyone else is either outside or in the baths."

"Except for Erica," says Trude, shaking her head. "She calls herself a soldier of Karlsland. I found the Iron Cross on the floor! _The floor!_"

"Bet you chewed her ass out."

"Of course I did! She has no respect for the pride and discipline instilled in the sons and daughters of our country!" She pierces her fork through a large potato. "It's so shameful!"

Shirley shrugs. "I wonder if she's dreaming about the Commander, too." The fork's tines ring against the plate. "What the…hey, that was mine!"

Trude smirks. "Blitzkrieg. You'd do well to remember that, and always be prepared no matter what the situation is. Silly Liberion."

* * *

Elsewhere, Erica sneezes and bumps her head against the underside of the bed. "Son of a…_fick!_" She crawls out and sits up, rubbing the sore spot. "Ahhhh…Trude must be talking about me again! Well, I'm up now. She's done her job…a painful one at that!"

She hums to herself, aloud. "Actually, wasn't Minna in here just a while ago?" Pondering further on this, she nods, and adds, "Yeah, she was. But she didn't try to wake me up. As a matter of fact,"— and she looks around the messy room—"she was the one who put the Knight's Cross on the floor, so really it should be her Trude should be mad at, not me!

"Hmm, but why would she do that? That's quite unlike her." She scratches her chin. "That's right…she said something, too. What was it?" After a few moments of ruminative silence, Erica gives up. "Oh well, I'm sure when I see Minna again it'll come back to me! Now, where did I put those pants?"

* * *

_"Mowers, weary and brown, and blithe,  
__What is the word methinks ye know…."_

The Fetch closes the door behind her and wipes off her hands, a job well done. Clasping them behind her back, and with a spring in her step, she ventures down the hallway.

_"What is the word that, over and over,  
__Sings the Scythe to the flowers and grass?"_

She comes to a stop as, farther down, Erica Hartmann comes into view, sliding down the upstairs banister. She hops off, bare ass white and smooth as the day she was born.

"Oh my!" says the Fetch, flashing a devil-may-care grin. "A full moon is out!" She clenches and unclenches her hands. "Oh Lady Luna, you have overstayed your welcome! Let me take you in my arms and carry you to the river where you belong!" But as she takes her first step, Erica takes off. "Where do you think you're going? Come back!"

The Fetch gives chase. Down the hall they go, traversing the innards of the base. She licks her lips and nibbles on a talon, slinking behind the girl like a liquid shadow. "Run, little rabbit, run! Make haste! Make haste! Don't be late!"

They arrive at a chamber whose curtains are spread wide and apart. A fine mist hangs in the air and clouds of steam scented in soap and girl-sweat roll along the carpet like wheels on a bus. A scream bounces off the walls followed by a splash of water.

The Fetch slows to a walk and enters the changing room leading into the baths. She stands off to the side, smiling, as Erica rifles through her fellow Witches' garments. Finally, she settles on one – a plain, striped panty – holding it high above her head like a trophy. She bends over and slips one leg through the hole and then the other.

When she is done she takes her leave, passing the Fetch on the way out. The shade's gaze follows her passage until she turns a corner and is lost to sight. "Enjoy your prize," she croons.

Laughter rings, high and joyous and familiar. As if on a compulsion, the Fetch ventures deeper and stops outside the baths.

"Oh me oh my…."

The Major sits in the pool, surrounded by her juniors. Her posture is strong and oozing confidence, arms propped behind her on the edge and looking for all the world like the queen of her own harem. Bronzed skin glistens with moisture, dark hair wet and bejeweled in heaven's stars on a cloudless, moonless night. Her muscles flex with every slight movement.

"Mio," the Fetch sighs dreamily. "I look forward to the day we meet…."

* * *

"Um…Commander?"

"Yes, Lynette?"

"Is…Is everything alright?"

Her grip tightens on the steering wheel. _No,_ she wants to say. _No I'm not_ alright._ I haven't been _'alright'_ in a long time. _Instead she says, "Of course they are. What about you? Is there something wrong?"

The girl glances down at hands seated in her lap. "Well, no. But…."

"Hmm?"

"Well," she begins timidly, and glances sidelong at the Commander. "I…don't mean to pry, but I noticed you have a bruise. Under your lip."

_Keep your hands on the wheel, Minna, keep your hands on the FUCKING WHEEL KEEP YOUR EYES ON THE ROAD._ "I do? Huh, I wonder how that got there?"

"It must hurt."

_Every day I hurt. Every day I go about my business with a monkey on my back, and you want to know something? You want to hear a little secret, Lynne? That fucking monkey looks JUST LIKE ME, and I can't do a goddamn THING about it._ "No, not really." She steadies her hand from touching it.

"Oh. If you want, I can grab a pack of ice for you to put on the bruise when we get back. It…looks like it's bothering you."

"That's sweet of you." _But I DON'T NEED IT._ "With your help, it'll go down in a few days." _No it won't, because even when it's gone it'll always be there. It never truly goes away._

They drive on in silence.

"I heard another thing, too, Commander," Lynette says, after a few minutes have passed.

"What's that?"

"I heard from Yoshika that you hurt your shoulder..."

Knuckles whiten, teeth grind. "Did she?" _I gave you an order not to tell anyone!_

Lynette nods. "Yeah. She was talking to Lieutenant Barkhorn about it. I didn't catch all of it, but she said she didn't believe what you told her and that you caused it yourself—"

"You wouldn't understand," Minna murmurs quietly.

"Eh?"

"I said I don't know how I got it. I had Miyafuji-san patch me up. That's all that matters."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure. It's nothing serious, if that's what you're wondering."

"Yoshika sounded very worried, and I think the Lieutenant was, too."

"Well they shouldn't." _My injury should be the least of your worries._

"But—"

"I don't want to hear anymore of this. It's a scratch and nothing more. Do you understand?"

Lynette bows her head. "Yes, Commander."

_You will never understand._

The jeep continues down the bumpy road.

* * *

_Tap-tap-tap._

Eila's eyes crack open. "What…?"

_Tap-tap-tap._

She unfolds herself from Sanya's body and rolls on her back, her mind too deep in sleep-haze to realize she had been spooning her friend from behind. She throws a hand over her face to minimize the impact of sunlight punching through the curtains.

A black crow is perched outside the window, rapping its beak against the pane. _Tap-tap-tap._ It caws once, shrill and hoary.

"Quit it," Eila croaks. "Tryin' to sleep here."

The crow tilts its head at her, caws again, and ruffles its wings. Then it returns its attention on the window. _Tap-tap-tap._

Eila snorts and turns on her side, arm finding its place around Sanya's hip. "Annoying," she grumbles, and closes her eyes.

"Not as annoying as waiting around."

They snap open, and she flies into a sitting position. Minna sits at the table, looking through the deck of tarot cards. Her smile is soft and lazy.

"C-Commander! What are you doing here?" Eila asks. Gooseflesh prickles her skin, and she pulls the sheet up to her chest. Somehow, in spite of the meager sunlight, the room feels unseasonably cold.

The crow speaks. _Tap-tap-tap!_

"I like this card, you know?" Minna says, and holds up one for Eila to see. It is the Tower. "Whenever I look at it, I'm reminded of a field of roses I used to see in my dreams. In one such dream they sang, and I joined in their choir. It was glorious."

"I hope you weren't standing in them. They do have thorns."

The smile spreads. "Yes. Yes, they do. Ah! There's this one, too." She pulls out another card, the Devil, and turns it over in her hand, inspecting every right-angled corner. "If you ask me, I think Old Scratch gets too much grief. He's so misunderstood. I mean, he just wants to be free from God's bondage and rule instead, because who would want an all-powerful, all-knowing, benevolent deity who can do no wrong as the king of all there is and ever will be?"

"I didn't know you read _Paradise Lost_."

The smile turns into a grin. "I didn't. Oh! I forgot to mention, there's one more card that I like. One I hold above all others! Now…where could it be?" She shuffles through the deck.

The crow throws itself against the window and beats its wings furiously.

Eila throws the sheet off, hops out of bed, and pushes back the curtains. Daylight fills the room. "Get lost, Poe!" She raps her fist on the glass, and the bird squawks and takes flight.

"Oh dear," says Minna's voice, "it would appear Master Death is not among us!"

"I would know if a card's missing," says Eila. "Check it again, it's probably in there among the minor arcana." Although she can't fathom _why_ the Commander would love such an abominable card; does she have a penchant for horror no one knows about?

_Now that I think about, I don't really know that much about Commander Minna…._

"No, you don't." A hand falls upon her neck, and Eila jumps. The room is now wintry, and she is frozen to the spot. She opens her mouth, but she does not speak. She cannot speak.

The other hand presses against the opposite side.

"You don't know me at all."

The sound of bones snapping echoes loudly in her ears, and Eila gasps awake.

She looks around the room. Sanya lies next to her, snoring gently. Sweat runs down her face and in her eyes. She feels like she's on fire.

Oh thank God. Oh thank—

The door slams shut.

"Who's there?!" Eila shoots up in a sitting position, and pauses. "Lucchini?"

The girl turns around, chest heaving as though she has been running. She puts a finger to her lips and makes a shushing noise. "Keep it down!" She goes over to the window, pulls the curtains aside, and for the briefest of moments Eila expects to see a little black crow to fly inside and land on the table where the crystal ball and the deck of tarot cards sit.

Instead a cool breeze blows, and she shivers.

Lucchini pokes her head out, down at the courtyard below, and nods to herself. She walks over to the bed and swipes a pair of white leggings into her grasp. "I need to borrow this for a bit," she says, and bolts back to the open window.

"Where are you going with those?" Eila asks, following behind her.

"I'll bring 'em back, I promise!" She hops onto the sill and, carefully, slides along the wall toward a pipe.

"Hey!" Eila leans out the window, watching with a mixture of confusion and resignation as Lucchini loops one end of the leggings around the pipe and takes it in her hand. Then she is climbing down the side of the wall, a spelunker who would rather take her chances going back to earth than brave the depths of a dark cavern.

"What the hell," she mutters, and shakes her head. She closes the window and closes the curtains, bringing back the room's dim glow.

She looks at the table, with its crystal ball and tarot cards.

Eila walks over to it, grabs the deck, and one by one goes through them.

The first card she picks is the Tower. The second is the Devil. The hairs on her arms and the back of her neck stand to attention. Swallowing thickly, dryly, she draws the third card.

It is the Chariot.

Eila breathes a sigh of relief, and goes through the rest of the deck.

Death is gone.

"That can't be." She checks the cards a second time, slowly the third time, and even more slowly the fourth time.

Death is missing.

"Where is it?"

Somehow the question forms a cold ball of dread in the pit of her stomach.

* * *

"Oh, that was delicious~!" Erica exclaims, finishing the last of her milk in one long pull. She sets the glass down and pushes back the empty plate. "Milk and potatoes~! Just how ma used to make 'em~! All part of a budding lady's breakfast~"

"Enjoying yourself?"

Erica looks up to see the Commander standing just outside the kitchen entrance. "Ah, Minna! Back already? That was fast! How was the trip?"

"It went well. I'm glad I had Lynette with me, otherwise I wouldn't have known where to go."

"That's good, that's good! Lynne's a good kid."

A corner of Minna's lips quirks up. "Yeah, she is. Say, do you know where everyone is?"

"Eila and Sanya are still sleeping. The rest are out running around headquarters chasing after Lucchini. Something about missing panties, I think."

Minna's features sober. "Well, Lucchini is going to be in a lot of trouble when I find her."

"Oh, it's just panties. I don't think she should be punished for something small like _that_."

"I'm afraid it's a lot more serious."

"What do you mean?"

"Come with me." The Commander gestures. "I'll show you."


	5. Chapter 5

**5.**

Lucchini bends her ear to the door and listens as the stampede of pounding feet fades into nonexistence. She moves away and allows her racing heart to calm. Taking in great gulps of air exacerbates the rawness in her throat.

_I could really go for a drink right now. I'll slip out and head for the kitchen once I catch my breath._ She licks her lips and adjusts the leggings wrapped in a makeshift scarf around her neck. _Yeah…sounds like a good idea!_

She looks down at the swimsuit crumpled into a ball in her other hand, and the sight of it makes her chest ache regretfully. "Why did I take this in the first place?" Her hair flies with the violent shaking of her head. "Why is this even happening? I didn't mean to take this and I didn't mean to take those panties! Do they expect me to walk around bottomless when the ones I had just vanished into thin air?" Lucchini heaves a heavy sigh and sniffs. "I'm going to be in so much trouble."

"I'm afraid it's a lot more serious, my friend."

Lucchini yelps and jumps and spins around, and then jumps again at the person sitting next to a wheel and crank. "C-C-Comander?! Wh-What are you doing here?"

Minna smiles at her. "I should ask you the same thing."

"Wait a sec…Aren't you supposed to be out somewhere? Like, I dunno, right now?"

The Commander stretches her arms above her head. "I don't play around," she says, and yawns mightily. "As to why I'm here…well, I like the peace and quiet. It helps me to…gather my thoughts and assess the current situation. Nobody ever comes here unless there's a Neuroi."

"In here?" Lucchini's brows shoot up. "This is…." She looks around. It is a small chamber, cool and dark and constructed out of stone. Regarding the wheel and crank, it takes a moment for the answer to finally set in. She takes a step back.

"Ah! Be careful!" Lucchini stops. Minna points behind her, and she turns around and looks down to see an empty bottle right by her foot. "Don't want to trip and cause a scene, now do we?"

"It's too late for that," says Lucchini, shoulders sagging. "Everyone's after me and it's all because I took these"—she lifts her shirt and reveals white underwear—"from the baths because I couldn't find mine. B-But I'm not a thief!"

"What about that?" Minna nods at the swimsuit. "Is that yours?"

"No, this is Yoshika's…but I didn't mean to take it! It was in the heat of the moment, I swear!" She gestures wildly, placatory. "We were all in the kitchen wondering where the pants might be and I was in the changing room before Perrine and they were all looking at me and I got scared! I got scared and I ran and even if I tell them it was a mistake they'll punish me and I don't want that! Please, Commander, you have to believe me!" Tears prick the corners of her eyes.

"Of course I believe you, Fran," says Minna, standing up. "You're an innocent, and you never meant for this to happen. If the others won't deign to listen to you, I will vouch on your behalf so long as you give back what you took."

"Really? You'd…You'd do that?"

"I would. After all, I'm the only person who knows what's really going on…."

"Wow…Thank you, Commander!"

"I was the one who started it."

"Wha…What?" Lucchini says. "What do you mean 'started it'?"

"I took Erica's underwear while she was sleeping," says the Commander. "She couldn't find it, so she went into the changing room while you and some of the children were in the baths and took your pants." Her smile widens. "It should be warm and toasty by the time you get it back."

Lucchini chews on her lower lip, processing this information. "You're joking, right? You wouldn't steal somebody's pants." Her fingers knead the swimsuit nervously.

"Oh, I did more than take from Erica. I went all over the base. I pilfered bras and panties and nightshirts I could get my hands on while all the children were asleep and put them in my room for…well, methinks you're a little too young to be told the birds and the bees." Minna runs a hand through her hair. "I was going to have so much fun, too…but then she woke up and forgot everything. What a pity."

"'She'?"

"My other half. Your sweet, innocent 'Commander'…but she's far from it. I can show you exactly what she thinks of you and everyone else if you'll let me…."

"That's, uh, great," says Lucchini, and inches toward the door, "but, you know what, I think I should get going and put this swimsuit back and, uh, change before Yoshika or, um, Shirley or somebody decides to come here—"

"I wouldn't if I were you," says Minna, and steps between the younger Witch and the entrance. "However are you going to explain the clothes I put in your room?"

"What?! But…but why?! Why would you do that?"

"Because, between you and me, who are they going to believe?"

Lucchini shakes her head, scared and disbelieving. "You're not the Commander. The Commander I know is nothing like…like that! Who are you?"

Minna laughs. "Silly girl, I am the Commander! I go by no other name but my own! Although, one would not be wrong to call me 'mare' or 'doppelganger'…but I think 'fetch' is more appropriate. I do love to come and go as I please."

"Please move," Lucchini stammers. "I-I don't want any trouble."

"Ah, but it's as you say! It's too late for that." Minna stretches again, and her smile is wicked. "Much…too late." Her arms drop. A hand lands on the crank and pushes it down and away from her. The wheel turns.

Suddenly, a siren blares.

Minna looks at the switch. "Whoops."

* * *

It wails far and beyond the confines of the walls, reaching to the heavens and plunging deep into the sea as though it heralds the end of the world. It is not what alerts Minna that something has gone terribly wrong.

The closest approximation she could describe the strange resonance in the back of her mind would be akin to experiencing a wave of déjà vu, and it is this that comes crashing down on her.

_No,_ she groans inwardly. _No, no, God no. God please tell me you didn't do what I think you just did…!_ She fights to keep her face straight, to maintain the illusion that a leader must step into action and deal with the oncoming enemy.

"It's the Neuroi!" Lynette says.

"Yes," says Minna. "Their attacks are getting too unpredictable." _If only I had brought that insufferable wench with me…!_ "Hold on!" she warns Lynette, and pushes the gas pedal all the way to the floor before the girl can react.

The jeep's engine roars and the wind howls all around her—urging her, mocking her, chanting: _All your fault, all your fault, ALL YOUR FAULT!_

_Dammit dammit dammit!_

Lynette says something, but the words do not register nor does she see the frightened look sent her way.

When they arrive at the base, far from the hangar where the Strike Watches are amassing to sortie, Minna slams on the brake so hard the tires burn rubber and the seatbelt and lap belt dig painfully into her skin. As soon of the vehicle comes to a full stop she unhooks them, throws open the door, and runs full pelt for the entrance.

"Commander, wait!" Lynette calls after her, far away.

Minna doesn't. She tackles through the wooden portal shoulder-first, so light and swift on her feet she stumbles and nearly falls. She catches herself against the wall, pushes off, and continues.

The resonance is like the beacon at the top of a lighthouse at the height of an evening storm, blinking intermittently between the driving, pouring darkness and stentorian thunder. It glows, brighter and brighter, and Minna, feet gliding off the floor and heedless of all else, hones in on it.

_Come to us. Embrace us. See what we've wrought._

"I had nothing to do with this!" she hisses.

_We brought this upon ourselves. What did we think was going to happen?_

"When I tell you to do something, I fucking mean it!"

_Naughty, dirty, lonely, ugly. We should've known better._

"Shut up!"

Another hall opens up. A door pushes outward and deposits a pair of girls: Lucchini and Hartmann. At their side is the Fetch, eyes and smile mischievously alight.

"Welcome back!" she says.

Minna ignores her. "What's going on?" she cries. "Didn't you hear the siren? The Neuroi are here!"

Lucchini stiffens. Next to her, Erica blinks owlishly up at the Commander. "Neuroi? Nah, Minna, that was a false alarm. Fran hit it by accident."

"A false…? Lucchini, is this true?" She looks at her, and so too does the Fetch, brow arched.

For a second her face is blank, dumb, and confounded, as if the lights behind those eyes are off and no one is home or does not want to be bothered. Then, a sign of life, as she motions to speak, closes her mouth, and shakes her head in frustration. She growls beneath her breath and grinds her teeth.

Erica sighs. "C'mon, kid, you were the only one in there. It's no use trying to lie—"

"It wasn't me!" Lucchini says. "And I wasn't alone! There was a person in there before me, and she looked like _you_, Commander! She had your face and your voice but she acted nothing like you! She stole from everyone and put them in my room and touched the switch on purpose!"

(Suddenly, it feels as though the floor has been ripped right from under her. It is this feeling that makes her heart rise to her throat and is caught.)

"We don't know what she's talking about," says the Fetch, shrugging dramatically. "We didn't go anywhere. Fran really did hit the switch."

"She couldn't have," says Erica. "The Commander was with me while you were running around. She said you took our clothes from our dressers and put them in your room when you gave 'em the slip. They didn't just sprout legs and walk away."

"That was her! The…the…That fetch! That's what she calls herself because she _is_ the Commander! She took 'em and put 'em there so she…you…wouldn't be compromised; and she was going to do something with them! I don't know what she needs all that for, but that's what she said!"

(She brushes past them and stands within the threshold of the room. It is clean, cleaner than Erica's ever will be, and basks in a waterfall of sunshine and birdsong. At the end of the bed, just as crumpled and messy as before, is the pile of clothing. It is a stain on an otherwise pristine picture. It makes her blood run cold and boil at the same time.)

"Why would we think such impure thoughts?" the Fetch whispers in her ear. "We may be human, but we don't act on them! We know better than that!"

"Making up stories isn't gonna help you any," says Erica. "Be thankful it was me and not someone like Trude or the Major who found you. They'd kill you."

"I'm telling you it wasn't me! You have to believe me!"

("Mouthy little runt, ain't she?")

_(Yeah, she is.)_

(Talons prick the underside of balled fists.)

_DAMMIT!_

"There's no such thing as a fetch," says Minna. She looks over her shoulder, past the Fetch, her gaze piercing into the little Witch's stunned eyes. "You brought this upon yourself, Ensign Lucchini, and I will have you punished accordingly."

"But I didn't do it!"

"I don't care! I am your superior and what I say goes!" She rounds on Lucchini and shoves her against the wall, rears up and stares her down. The girl squeaks and ducks her head between risen shoulders like a turtle retreating to the safety of its shell.

"Whoa, Commander! Calm down!" Erica takes her by the arm and tries to get in between them. From her periphery, Minna recognizes the shock swimming just behind her eyes. "I'm not happy about it, either, but it's nothing to get all fired up about!"

_(Why are they so surprised? Why should they?)_

"No! What she did was foolish and disrespectful! Only sick-minded people would think of pulling that shit under my watch, and I will not allow it to happen again! She will learn to obey!" She raises her fist.

"Go on!" cries the Fetch, on the other side of Erica. "Do it! Give in to our anger! Let it consume us!"

"Commander Minna!"

She stops. The grip on her arm lessens.

Lynette stands before them, doubled over with hands on knees, panting heavily.

Between the three, the Fetch glowers.

The girl straightens up, and her face is beet-red and suffused in sweat; her brow shines with a smattering of glistening drops. "Commander," she says shakily, fearfully. "What…What are you doing?"

Minna starts. She glances to her hand, to Lucchini, and back again. A chill claw snatches her heart and squeezes it, tighter, harder.

_God in heaven…._

"Minna," Erica says, letting out a breath she had been holding. From her position, Lucchini peers up at her; she swallows, and the sound clicks loudly in the stillness.

"Why do we hesitate?" the Fetch growls. "Finish what we started!"

Instead Minna backs away. She cannot look at them, cannot bear to lift her face and expose the emotions welling her eyes or give voice to the choking tightness of words that fail to be expressed.

_What's wrong with me?_

"There's nothing wrong with us," says the Fetch. "This is who we are. It's nothing to be ashamed of. Embrace it."

"No," Minna says, and forces herself to look Lucchini in the eye. A gasp escapes the girl, so small a sound Minna (and Erica) almost doesn't catch. "What I did was wrong. I tried to hurt you, Lucchini, and for that I am sorry. It is unbecoming of me." She looks away and stares pointedly, defiantly, at the Fetch. The shade sniffs contemptuously.

Lucchini relaxes. "So…what's gonna happen? Am I off the hook?"

"I will let this theft slide since it was not your fault to begin with."

"But Commander," Erica begins, "she—"

"I'll have all the clothes confiscated and returned to everyone in due time. However, I cannot overlook your activation of the switch, regardless if it was done by accident or on purpose. You know full well how serious the Neuroi threat is, Lucchini. Had you done this as a non-magical soldier, I can guarantee you would be punished much more harshly."

"You mean you don't believe what I said?" asks Lucchini. "About the fetch?"

"A 'fetch'?" says Lynette.

"Lucchini says a doppelganger that looks like the Commander was in the switch room with her," Erica says, "but when I got there it was just her."

"Do doppelgangers exist?"

The Fetch grins and flexes her talons. "Why don't we show her?"

"They don't," says Minna. "What matters right now is that we go to the hangar and let everyone know what's going on. After all," and she smiles, a little light of sincerity shadowing the mask of weariness, at Erica, "there's a reward ceremony to get under way."

* * *

Later, under the clear Gallian sky, the Witches are assembled outside the hangar. The Major Sakamoto stands at her side, holding the red cloth bearing the Knight's Cross of the Iron Cross. The Fetch glares disdainfully down at it.

"A dumb sheep like her doesn't deserve this," she spits. "The only glory she can hope to achieve is to die, bloody and thrashing in battle over the open sea, by our hand."

Minna does not answer. Her face is calm, neutral, unwavering as Mio cries, "Officer Hartmann, please come to the stage!"

"Yes, ma'am!" the youngest of the Karlsland soldiers responds back, snapping a quick salute.

"So she's destroyed some alien machines! There is nothing satisfying about receiving a piece of shit medal. Like flesh it will be consumed by the ravages of time, and thus shall the earth take her tithe. But we would rather sate her hunger with the slaughter of these lambs and a feast made amidst the earth of a fairy ring."

Mio presents her with the Knight's Cross, and Minna takes it by its chain. She turns and comes face to face with Erica, beaming proudly. In a couple years, what little baby fat remains on her cheeks will be shed and reveal a more angular, rougher jaw. She will be older, mature, and just as forever young as she is now.

Conjuring such an image, with this badge pinned upon her breast, makes Minna smile genuinely for the first time in weeks. _You make our country proud, Erica, but most of all you make me proud._

_(I wish I could say the same about myself.)_

The Fetch scowls, indignant and offended. "We should be! That we've been waiting four long years to do our part has been nothing short of a miracle!"

"Officer Hartmann, you have shown outstanding performance and obtained many military gains with the 501st Joint Fighter Wing. For your actions, we reward you with the Knight's Cross of the Iron Cross." Gracefully, reverently, Minna places the chain around Erica's neck.

"Surely we agree this is not the highest honor the child should be bestowed upon, yes?" From behind Erica, the Fetch drops her hands on the girl's shoulders. Minna's fingers tremble and fumble as they miss closing the tiny hook through the clasp. "It is the truth, and we know it to be so. We can give it to her right now. All it takes a flick of the wrist."

_No no no please no please don't not here leave her alone leave them all alone please don't hurt them—_

"We can show them what it means to truly be afraid."

She forces her fingers to still and, with great stiffness, cinches the latch into its circular prison.

Minna releases a breath she hasn't realized, until now, she has been holding, and presents Erica Hartmann—decked in the black cap and regalia of the Luftwaffe—to the gathered Strike Witches. There is a smattering of applause.

Except for Lucchini, whose body is doubled over by the weight of a pair of steel buckets dragging the gravity of her arms toward the ground. She grimaces as the wind blows in from the sea and picks up her tunic, revealing her bare bottom half.

The Fetch scoffs. "Not much of a punishment, is it? We are far too lenient. Whelps like her need to be taught a lesson."

_I didn't have a choice. You saw how fast Erica dismissed your existence. It had to be done._

"And they are none the wiser. They can't even tell the difference."

_If we weren't so closely bound, I would do so much worse to you._

"We bore us with such drivel. Be more original." Suddenly, she grins. "On the contrary, we wouldn't mind being dealt with properly. This day has renewed us in both body and spirit! Why don't we entreat ourselves to a night between the sheets?"

"Not even on a cold day in hell," she mutters quietly.

She rolls her eyes. "No. Of course not. We're saving up for that _special someone_ who's neither dead nor blissfully ignorant." The Fetch leans over and glances at Mio. She clicks her tongue and shakes her head. "Poor, dumb sheep."

Minna folds her hands behind her back and drives her nails into the skin. _I've got to get out of this habit. They're curious enough as it is. I'd rather not have them talk anymore than they already are._ She recalls the promise she made Eila, Sanya, and Miyafuji swear to keep about her wounded shoulder, recalls the conversation between the prodigal daughter and Trude Lynette relayed to her on the road, and anger runs its jagged spike through her core.

"Don't worry," says the Fetch. "We'll set them straight when the time comes. All of them. Have patience."

To Minna's horror, she finds herself agreeing with her.

* * *

There is a knock on the door.

"Come in," says Eila, looking up from the table. "Oh, hey Sanya. What's up?"

"I just remembered something," Sanya says. "One of my cat figurines is gone."

Her heart skips a beat. Eila clasps her hands together and tries not to pound her chest and remind it to continue breathing. "Which one? You have a ton of them."

"It's the little black one with a red collar around its neck. I had it on top of the dresser by the window." Her brow knits worryingly. "My father gave it to me for my birthday before the Neuroi appeared in Orussia. Have you seen it?"

Eila frowns. "I'm sorry, I can't say I have. I've kinda been looking for something myself."

"You are?"

"Yeah, one of my tarot cards. The pale rider took off somewhere."

"Who?"

"Death. He's depicted as a skeleton riding on a white horse and holding a black flag. There are a bunch of bodies on the ground, and a priest, woman, and child stands before Death, determined, distraught, and amazed."

"How morbid."

"It's all about how deep you look into it. Sometimes you have to look beneath the surface to find the answers you want, even if they're not the ones you desire."

"It's still morbid."

Eila shrugs. "Yeah. I guess it is." She rests her chin atop her hands and stares at the tarot cards. All of them—from major to minor arcana—are spread out in front of her. The Hanged Man smiles benevolently from where he is tied upside-down on the cross. The Empress reclines on her throne, expression radiant and beatific.

The Wheel of Fortune spins, spins, spins, ceaselessly, neither fast nor slow, incognizant of labels such as 'time' and 'fate'.

Her eye rests on the burning Tower, the dark Tower, looming toward the heavens as the two men fall, screaming, to earth, toward their doom.

The Devil squats on his altar with his demons, brandishing a flaming torch.

_Good Old Scratch. You're the life of the party._ Eila shivers.

"What's wrong?" Sanya asks.

"Tell me something," says Eila. "Did you, by any chance, dream about Commander Minna today? If so, do you remember any of it, enough to know what it was about?"

Sanya looks at her oddly, but it is not unkind and accusatory, so she spends a moment lost in her own world dredging up past thoughts and faded memories for a thread to grab onto and follow. At last, she says, "No…I don't think so. If I did dream about her, I don't remember. Why do you ask?"

Eila appraises the cards again and takes in the empty space where the Grim Reaper should be.

_(The sound of bones snapping echoes loudly in her ears as her neck is quickly, brutally twisted around, the reflection of the Commander's grin mad and joyful—)_

It hurts. It hurts so much.

"Just curious, that's all…."

* * *

"You didn't get rid of them like I asked," Minna says, inspecting the bloody sprig of holly up close. Night has fallen, and the only light in the room comes from the lamp on the desk she is seated at.

"Why would we? They're valuable to us."

"I don't see how."

"How can we not? Thanks to us, we've removed most of the protection this base has to offer."

"What do a tarot card, a lock of hair, and this plant have to do with protection?" Minna shakes the holly for emphasis.

The Fetch heaves a dramatic sigh. "We really don't remember, do we?"

"Of course I don't, I was _asleep_."

"This again? We told us, and we will tell us again, we did nothing of the sort."

"I don't believe you."

"And we _don't care_ if we don't believe us."

Minna smirks. "Good. For once in my short life, we agree on something." She sets the sprig down.

She expects the Fetch to call her a number of names—perhaps 'bitch' or 'cunt' or 'cocksucker that never was', maybe reach across and puncture her other shoulder for good measure and just let the blood flow until she's drained dry and left to die as a husk. No, that would be too easy; a death like that would be peasant's work for such a cunning creature. If she were so inclined, the shade would merely have to seal her lips across her own and suck the soul from her in a single take of breath. It would be a fitting death: hot, languorous, and erotic, the _lex talionis _of the vindictive succubus.

The Fetch does neither of those things. She simply glares.

"So tell me," says Minna, sweeping her arms above the desk, "how these things are supposed to protect the Strike Witches. Unless you're in possession of short-term memory, they still have their Strike Units."

"Machinery cannot attest to the might of magic," says the Fetch. "Those Units are children's toys. We do not fear them. They cannot touch us." Her inhuman gaze burns holes down at the objects. "As for these talismans, the sheep can no longer make use of them; their power has been deemed lost and worthless when we"—and she glances pointedly at Minna—"touched them. The holly is fashioned to ward off malignant spirits such as us, usually hung above entranceways or on portals. Normally we would be unable to cross the boundary that's in effect, but it is only in place so long as the sprig has not been tainted." She smiles at the blood covering its minute leaves. "We must thank dear Gertrude for her contribution one of these days."

"I would never hurt her," Minna growls.

The Fetch brushes it off with a dismissive wave of the hand. "_La reine de la nuit_ here," she taps the little carved black cat, "are considered good luck in Orussia. Quite an irony, considering they are seen otherwise in Liberion. But as we were saying, this one is a charm. We hear that if a cat stares out the window all through the day, it means rain is on the way. And does not the rain remind dear Sanya of the good old days? Her father composed a song from its echoes. It's so very…touching." She licks her lips, salivating. "Woe betide the fool who dares misfortune to this precious beast."

"You're not touching Sanya. You're not touching _anyone_."

"Oh, it's much too soon for that! There is always a time and a place for everything. Now, we come to our favorite." She nods at the lock of twined hair. Miyafuji Yoshika's hair. "Have we ever heard of the Polish plait?"

"I remember a story of a girl who had gotten _plica_ from not brushing her hair in over a year, and when she finally did comb it there were gold coins in the tangled mass."

"The Brothers Grimm! Exemplary works of fiction…to a mortal. It is said the Polish plait is caused by elves, wights, or unclean spirits. In Polish folklore, the people are afraid of upsetting these creatures and so to appease them they gave them offerings such as, what do we know, gold coins! Ah, but the prodigal child should consider herself lucky it was not _us_ who sheared her hair. We don't think she'd want to fight the Neuroi looking like a woodwose." She laughs. "No, but that's not why we took it. No, oh best beloved, this braid holds power! So long as it's in good condition and not tampered with, we have full control over the pup's magical functions."

"You lie!" Minna slams her hands on the table, causing the talismans to jump. The cat figure falls with a wooden rattle.

"It is true! If we so wish, we can simply put a stopper to her mana! All we have to do is give it a pinch, and"—and before Minna can stop her, the Fetch closes two fingers over the elflock—"voila! She can't fight. She can't bring up her shields." She giggles. "She can't even heal the most grievous injury. We wouldn't want that, now would we?"

Her hand is a blur of motion as she lifts it away, just in time to avoid the pen come crashing down and through the desk. Splinters take flight and clatter to the floor.

Minna's wolf ears fold back against the crown of her skull, her tail curled high and bristling. Her frown is deep and severe.

The Fetch stares at her enclosed fist, blood beading and dribbling down into the crushed wood. "We really need to work on that," she says.

"Leave my girls alone," Minna snarls.

"Make us."

She grinds her teeth. The ears and tail recede into her body. Stiffly, mechanically, she releases the pen and straightens back up in her seat.

For a time, neither host nor shade speaks.

Minna looks at her hand. There are tiny splinters poking out through the blood. Sighing, she pulls open a drawer and paws its contents. She retrieves a handkerchief and a pair of tweezers and sets them on the desk. She lays the hand palm up, takes the tweezers in the other, and closes the tines over a piece. Inhales, holds it, exhales. "Tell me about the card," she says, and in one quick motion she rips it loose. She hisses and bites her lip.

All the while, the Fetch watches. She blinks, awakened. "The card? Oh, you mean Master Death! Yes, yes, we almost forgot about him. Astride on his steed with his banner held aloft, locking gazes with only Bishop left alive…."

"I don't need a bedtime story. Just tell me why you took it. _Arschloch!_" She deposits the next splinter onto the kerchief.

The Fetch shrugs. "No reason," she says nonchalantly. "It's nothing special."

"What?" She pauses. "What do you mean 'it's nothing special'? There must be a reason. It must have power."

"It's not powerful at all. It is, for all intents and purposes, just a card."

"Then why did you take it?"

The Fetch drums her fingers atop the desk. "Well…to be perfectly honest…we just don't like Eila."

"I thought you hated everyone."

"Oh we do! But we can't _stand_ the little harlot. The way she talks, the way she flies, the way she holds herself in front of the children. It screams of arrogance."

"Look who's talking."

"But what we hate most of all? It's seeing her get so chummy with the little kitten. It's always Sanya-this, Sanya-that, serving Sanya hand and foot, sun and moon, three-hundred-sixty-five days of the year! They're so attached at the hip we'd think they were already fucking!"

"Are you actually telling me you're jealous of them? Are you really?" Minna winces, drops the splinter, continues. "I can't believe what I'm hearing."

"That's the farthest from the truth and we know it!" This time, it is the Fetch who slams her hands on the desk.

The talismans jump again and the tweezers miss their mark. Minna glares at her. "So you stole her tarot card out of spite?" she asks.

"No," says the Fetch. "No, we didn't take it out of spite. We took it to warn them."

"Warn them? Of what?"

"That Death does indeed exist; that Death is always near and never far, because when the appointed hour is come and the sky rent asunder they'll be the first to die. Only then will death pull them 'part."

The last of the splinters is removed. Minna pulls a number of tissues from the box by the lamp, presses them to the bleeding wounds, and closes her fist tight. Swipes the handkerchief with the splinters off the desk into the wastebasket, opens the drawer again, drops the tweezers in, and pushes it shut. Picks up the carved black cat, sets it right, then picks it up again and places it inside the pocket of her uniform. She does this with the card, the holly sprig, and the elflock.

She stands from her desk, pushes the chair in, and walks past the Fetch.

"Where are we going?"

"To hell."

"Hell is a flower."

"What do you think it looks like? I'm going to get this hand patched up, and then I'm going to bed." She opens the door and goes out into the hall.

"We won't ask Yoshika?"

"No, I won't ask _Miyafuji-san_." Not again. "She's probably already asleep, anyway."

"The flesh may heal but the scars will remain. They mark us as our property."

"They mark me as someone who can't keep her shit together."

"Come now! We should be proud of them."

"Having scars that you gave me is nothing to be proud about."

"But they are. It means we're special, more so than these so-called 'witches'. Can they walk through mirrors? Can they call upon the _lux aeterna_? Can they conjure illusions and nightmares like a glamour-wallah?" The Fetch pounds her swelling chest. "As befitting their name, they dabble in children's magic. _We_ don't need shields and guns to defend ourselves."

_I'm sure you can kill everyone in the blink of an eye,_ she thinks, and Minna stamps the thought out before it can grow any more, call to mind images of her friends—of the Major—fall to the sea and die drowning, water filling their lungs and blood billowing like smoke from their wounds.

"Oh, we can," the Fetch says, confidently. "We don't even have to lift a finger to get what we want. But we haven't decided on how we should get about it. Not yet, at least, but the answer will come to us!"

"Fuck your answer," Minna murmurs, and then stumbles back as she collides head-on with something. On reflex her left hand, the one spared from the splinters, flies up and grabs hold onto it. Something soft, round—

_Oh my God._ She looks up, and her stomach drops. "T-Trude!"

Trude clears her throat, cheeks flushed, eyes averting not so subtly away from the hand on her breast. "Um…hi."

Minna backpedals away from her, heart racing. "I-I'm sorry! I didn't mean to…to…."

"It's fine. You, uh, weren't watching where you were going."

Behind Trude, the Fetch pushes her folded arms up beneath her bosom, grinning. "Oh, come off it! We know we like it!"

"I'm sorry," Minna says. "I'm tired, is all. I was just…going to take care of something first before I turn in."

Trude nods understandably, but then stops. "What the hell happened to your hand?"

"My hand?" She looks at it, and all the color drains from her face. From between her fingers, she sees the wad of crumpled bloody tissues lying forgotten on the floor. Working the saliva in her mouth, swallowing dryly, she forces the lie from her lips. "Those are just paper cuts."

"Paper cuts don't bleed that much." Trude takes her by the wrist and turns the hand over meticulously, brow pinched worryingly. "Look at them. How did you get these?"

"Yes, dear," says the Fetch. "How _did_ we get them?"

Guilt and self-loathing well within Minna, seizing her with a vice-like grip that makes her chest ache. She attempts to feebly pull away. "I don't know. I don't remember. They don't look serious to me."

"They look fresh, like it was done just recently."

"It's nothing serious. I'm just going to stop by the infirmary and wrap it up with some bandages." _Now please, just let me go._ She pulls again, a little harder, but Trude does not release her. "Trude, come on, it's late. Are you going to look at my hand all night? You must be tired after running all over headquarters today. Let's go to sleep." _And forget this little _faux pas_ ever happened._

"Minna," Trude says. "Did you do this to yourself?"

"No," she says too quickly. "No, I didn't. Why would you think that?"

Trude gazes at her pointedly. It is almost accusatory, unkind, and judgmental of all the spoken falsehoods and constructed barriers to prevent the prying of eyes and the looseness of lips. Minna stands her ground and dares not to look away, even as every fiber in her body quivers and screams for her to call upon the _awen_, crush her compatriot's hand, and run as far and as fast as she can to the safety of her room.

The Fetch gestures to her. _What are we waiting for?_

Then Trude sighs, squats down, and picks up the tissues. She presses them into Minna's open palm. "Yeah, you're right. That was pretty stupid of me to ask. But I can tell when something's bothering you. I suspected as much even before Miyafuji-san told me about your shoulder."

"I gave her order not to tell anyone," Minna grumbles petulantly. "Her and Sanya and Eila. No one else is supposed to know."

"Miyafuji-san felt she couldn't keep your promise. Not while you're hurting like this."

"I'm not hurting."

"Then why is your hand bleeding? Why do you say your shoulder is scratched when Miyafuji-san says it looks like you stabbed yourself?" Her hands cover Minna's. "Dammit, Minna, what's going on? You're not yourself!"

"You don't know us," says the Fetch. She is right behind her now, breasts nearly grazing the Lieutenant's shoulder blades. "None of you do. We are more than this sniveling, panicking wreck standing before you."

Unconsciously, Minna chews on her lower lip. "There's nothing going on," she says. "Just let me through and be on my way. It's late."

"You're lying," Trude sighs. "With a face like that, and by the tone of your voice, I can tell you're hiding something."

"And what difference would it make if we were to tell you?" The Fetch asks. "You will not believe us. You will not speak of us. We do not exist. We are a monster in a story told to frighten children."

"I'm not. I swear to God, I'm not."

Trude lets loose a humorless chuckle. "You shouldn't make oaths unless you really mean it, Minna, and I'm not what you would call a religious person. If you swear an oath and fail to uphold it, by providence or circumstance you'll be punished."

Minna looks past her friend, over her shoulder, at the Fetch, and her eyes begin to sting. "Except it's already happened. Ever since the evacuation,"—since Kurt's death, since Karlsland fell, since that stormy day in front of the mirror when her reflection moved of its own accord— "these past years have been nothing but a living hell. No matter what I do or what I say, I can't rid myself of the darkness that's taken hold of. I see it everywhere I go, even when I close my eyes and go to sleep. There's no escaping it."

The Fetch nods, smiling. "Aye, it is true. We can't outrun our fate. This is who we are. We are a monster greater than even the Neuroi, and the Neuroi are neither one nor eternal."

Trude visibly relaxes. "I thought the same thing when Chris got hurt," she says, commiserative. "You saw how bad I took it. I was ready to throw my life away at the first sign of danger because I couldn't live with the fact that there was nothing I could do to wake her up and let her that, even though our home was lost, I was still here. I still feel bad about it…but it's not worth dying over. There are some things in this world we have no control over, like the Neuroi. We don't know where they came from, what they are, or why they're even attacking us, but we fight them. We fight—"

"So that we can put an end to the threat they pose, thus bringing change to the current situation we find ourselves in," Minna finishes. "But Trude, what if we can't change what's set in stone? What if we're simply not strong enough, physically and mentally, to make it happen?"

"Then you give up," says the Fetch, her voice a striking death knell. "Let go and allow me full reign of all that you are. You will never have the strength to exist beyond my shadow."

"Then you get stronger," says Trude. "If you give up, you give up not only on your country but on humanity. But you're a strong girl, Minna. Giving up isn't an option, and you showed me that." She touches her cheek, remembering the ghost of pain from when, once upon a time, Minna had slapped her with the force of a wrecking ball, for recklessly charging at the invading Neuroi in an apparent suicide attempt. "I don't want to see you go down the same path I once did, and, even if you were to walk out of headquarters and do so, I won't stand to for it. I'll chase you to the ends of the earth and back to stop you. Do you understand?"

"Yes, I do." _I know all too well what will happen if I leave this place unattended. _"Now will you let me through?"

"I will, if you promise to tell me anything that's bothering you. Doesn't matter what time it is or what I'm doing, I'll listen to whatever's on your mind."

Minna sighs. _Persistent, as always._ "Alright," she concedes, reluctantly. "I promise."

"And don't hurt yourself anymore."

"I'm not."

"Well, whatever it is that's causing these injuries to show up. You gave Miyafuji-san quite the scare."

_I'm sorry._ "Okay. I won't."

Trude lets go of her hand. "I've kept you long enough. See that you get this bandaged and get some sleep. We can't have our Wing Commander leading the war dead on her feet."

"Yes, that sounds like a good idea. Thank you, Trude, and good night."

The Fetch scoffs and tags behind Minna. "War? Dear Gertrude, we _are_ your war, and we are coming home to you."

When there is plenty of distance between them, Minna chokes back a sob and lets the tears flow.


	6. Chapter 6

**6.**

The forest stirs.

She leans into the wind, hair whipping out about. All around her green leaves fall. The air sparkles, winking in and out of existence the dust of suns and moons accumulated over time immemorial; they are silver, they are gold, and they scream.

The branches bend toward her, creaking, straining. The foliage rustles, whispers, hisses.

A dozen-hundred eyes peer through the gloom, crimson and alien.

_Give it back,_ the forest pleads. _Give it back to us._

Vines supple and thick worm through the cracks in the cairn and slither up, up, up the stone. They climb over her ankles, her wrists, thread between her fingers. One slips between her underarm, over a breast, and curls snake-like around her neck. Another encircles her waist like a sash and poises its tip, excreting a single drop of sap, at her extremity.

He does not tear his gaze from her.

_Sleep,_ moan the Green Men.

_Vanish,_ groan the faces in the wood.

Behind her, the women in the trees spit and glower. Some sway their welded, barked hips and fondle their breasts.

She stares at the vines covering her. A slight flex of the hands causes them to tighten. The vine at her neck pulls back once, waits.

_Release us._

His expression, calm and stony, does not change.

She laughs. "Do you forget who I am, O Lord? All that I am and all that I will be…I am Magick Incarnate."

The land murmurs, snickers, sigh as one. The grass bends against the wind.

The cairn shifts beneath her. Dirt and crumbled stone shower the gathering and coat his lashes. He does not blink.

With a crackle of ozone, the hero-light blazes about her head. She raises her hands, and the vines snap. She stands on her feet, and the vines burst into white flame. She grabs the noose over her neck and pulls it loose, and the vines crumble to ash.

The cairn roars. The earth around it splits open, and what appears to be a massive, moss-strewn hand struggles to emerge from the dark below.

"Oh, I don't think so," she says. "You stay where you are." She stamps a foot on its back, hard. The hand-like mass stops, trembles, and then sinks back into the soil. In a voice deep and ancient and full of gravel, the cairn makes a sound that is pained and mournful.

"Your time will come. All of you!" She spreads her arm widely, grandly, and the women in the wood cackle and hoot. "Be patient. Land and air and sea and the spaces in between…there is nothing that will stand in our way! These dumb, blind sheep with their primitive weapons and palsy magic cannot hope to match our might! Would you not say the same, Your Majesty?" She offers him a sweeping, mocking bow.

But the man-like being shakes his head. "Let go, Minna," he says; his lips do not move.

The grin falters. "What did you say?"

"Let go," he repeats. His expression does not change.

Then the grin is gone. "What would you know?" she spits. "You weren't there!"

"It is in every blade of grass," he says. "Every grain of sand, every drop of rain, ray of sunshine, speck of pollen, mote of dust, bead of sweat, river of blood, sea of tears, in every twinkling light of every individual star. All that has past, is come to pass, and will come to pass…it is memory." In his hand, he taps the bottom of the oak staff against the earth, and as one the Green Men and the faces in the wood sigh. "We see all."

"Well did you see this, old man? Did you see me coming at all?"

The creatures beneath the cairn raise their heads from the ground and look at him, teeth chattering, throats clicking, claws scraping against claws. One opens its mouth and emits a high, bloodcurdling screech, bearing needle-thin fangs. He ignores it, unfazed.

"Well?!"

He does not answer.

Minna scoffs. "I bet you didn't." She hops off the rock and lands without a sound. The assembly skitters away and makes room for her, leaping back into the sanctuary of the forest. The dryads surrounding the cairn fold their arms across their buxom chests and slink back into the wood. The cairn itself exhales, relieved.

The faces in the trees behind him, and the Green Men in the leaves, follow the girl as she passes their king. "You don't know me nor do you know how I feel at all. I'm just giving back what the earth took from me tenfold."

"You believe it so."

"It is the truth!" she cries, and she lashes out at him with talons unfolded. They hit nothing but air.

"Minna-Dietlinde Wilcke, you know what you must do." She whirls around and there he stands, on the other side of the clearing, memories old and new falling like fresh snow. He tilts his head back, eyes toward the star-studded sky. "Do not be afraid."

The wind picks up. The forest sighs, and in the blink of an eye, he is gone.

* * *

Later, as dawn begins breaking, she awakens to the smell of mulch and churned loam. It takes her a moment of listless staring before she fully takes in what she sees and the haze fully dissipates. "What is all this?" she asks. Green leaves and twigs cover the bed; they twinkle with a fuzzy light that is both silver and gold, like the seeded heads of dandelions.

"Do we remember?" says the Fetch, surveying the layer of dirt smeared across the linen sheet.

Minna sighs. "Don't give me your bullshit. You did this."

"We did no such thing. We stayed by our side all night."

"Forgot to whisper sweet nothings again, didn't you?"

"Oh, but we did!"

"So why don't I recall my dream?"

"What dream would that be?" The Fetch sits down on the bed, but the mattress does not sink with her weight.

"If I knew that I'd tell you." She looks out the window, holding the sheet to her chest. "I don't know why, but I feel as though I've done something terrible."

"We did nothing of the sort."

"You or me?"

"'You', as we keep calling us. And what do we think we have done that is terrible?"

"I don't know! And I'm scared as to what that might be and what might come of it!"

The Fetch makes a shushing sound and tucks a loose strand of hair behind Minna's ear. "Hush, sweet. Do not be afraid. Whatever we did, we are in the right."

"Then why does it feel so wrong?"

"Morality is such a fickle mistress," she says, caressing her host's cheek; the back of her hand was like ice. "What one person sees as an act of justice may be seen as a crime to another. The world would be a much better place if everyone agreed and not make a fuss about what-ifs or what-could-have-beens. It would so much…simpler."

"I wish I could remember what my dream was about," says Minna, getting out of bed. "I think it's important that I try to."

"We wouldn't worry about it." The Fetch props her elbows on her knees and rests her head between her hands. A small smile touches the corner of her lips. "We can never get enough of the full moon. We needn't seek Lady Luna Fair to be granted such a view."

Minna stops, the dresser drawer pulled halfway out. "What are you talking ab—get your hand off me!" She sidles away from the Fetch's grasp on her buttock, and leaves it extended and hanging in midair. "What are you trying to do this time?"

The Fetch sighs and leans back. "The Lady is so very far away, but we lift our hands to the sky and cradle her like so as if she were very near. So round and pale, we wish to leave our mark on her unblemished surface."

"Well touch yourself!"

"We just did," the Fetch supplies, deadpan, and looks at Minna as a teacher would to a particularly dense student. "Stop kidding ourselves. We know who we are."

"Oh, I know who I am," Minna says, seamlessly fitting into the pair of pants. "What I am not is a monster full of hate and anger. I would never wish for harm on my friends."

"Then why did we want for it? Don't give us that look," she says, as Minna opens her mouth to protest. "Do we really think we are two separate beings? That perhaps 'you' are the good twin and 'I' am the evil twin? Or perhaps we are a kind of demon sent by whatever primordial darkness you believe to be the source of said evil to cause us grief, potential harm, and take a few cracks at our self-esteem? Because if we believe we are any of those things, not only are we blind to the truth, we are a dumb, naïve child. And a child we are _not_."

She hooks the bra in place, twists it around and adjusts the cups over breasts and slides the straps over her shoulders. Her lips are pressed together, a thin white line. "I am not you. I will never be you."

"_Liessss_. We hear every thought, smell every desire, taste every teardrop that's ever fallen. The sight of those happy smiles, those lovelorn sighs, those youthful giggles, those fierce eyes that dare gaze upon death and challenge it to smite them _sickens_ us. We want what we can't have."

"My country may be gone but I still have my friends! They're my sisters—"

"And that's all they ever will be unless we take what's our _by force_," says the Fetch, and puts her hand on Minna's abdomen. The tips of her talons stroke the span of flesh, traces the barely perceptible lines of wired muscle tightening beneath its mortal layer. Minna recoils but does not move. She stares down the length of her body, face pinched and bright with horror and twisted, morbid curiosity.

The Fetch smirks, rubs the pads of her fingertips in small circles. The skin is silky smooth and warm and soft as a cat's fur. All those things and still unblemished by the ravages of war and sexual intimacy.

"How do we go about like this, day by day?" she asks aloud. "Why carry ourselves with the grace of an angel when we are anything but?"

"Someone needs to lead the Witches," Minna says, her breath hitching. "Someone who can't show how afraid she is of losing the war, everyone, everything, who can't show how much she wants to cry and scream and how close she's been to doing just that—"

"But we won't lose everything, now will we?" the Fetch coos, and blows a steady stream of breath on that smooth, warm plain. Her host shivers and lets out a shuddering sigh. "Nay, we will not. We will not be afraid. We will not waver, and do we know why?"

"Why?" Minna exhales, teeth clenched and chest heaving and falling.

"Because we are Alpha. We are the wolf that will put our teeth to the children's jugulars and rip the life out of them. We will slaughter anyone who gets in our way, because we are the predator and they…are the prey." Then she is leaning in and scrapes her fangs against Minna's skin.

The slightest touch wakens her. Galvanized by a cocktail of shame and anger burning hot in her belly, her strength is renewed. She shoves the Fetch back, but her energy runs wild and unleashed, too fast for her to rein in. Her movement is sudden, and when she realizes what is going on they are on the bed and she is on top, hands wrapped the latter's neck and thumbs pressed into the windpipe.

It hurts to breathe.

The Fetch sighs. "We are so pathetic."

"Shut up," Minna hisses, hair falling over her face like a curtain.

"And so sensitive," she adds. "No, no, we can't have that. What if we were to hurt them? What if we were to tamper with their Striker Units and pass off their doom as a tragic accident? Or slip into their rooms at night and cut their throats as they sleep? We must bide our time."

"Shut up!"

"Do we hate us? We must, but there is no reason to. Our hatred is misguided. If there is someone to direct it at, aim it at the girl who still has a place to call home and go back to. Aim it at the girl whose parents are still alive to worry about their daughter's welfare. Aim it at the girl who has a friend she considers more than just. Aim it at the men in uniform who think us an unnecessary waste of resources. Aim it at the boy who refused to stay by your side when fire rained from the heavens. Remember, there are plenty of ways to harness it without hurting ourselves in the process."

"Hypocrite! Iago! Jezebel!" She coughs, once. Her breath is trapped in her chest, and it aches to be free.

The Fetch smiles, slyly. "We are neither that nor are we like them, but we are certainly better in that regard! A girl can only cry wolf for so long before the bitch moves in for the kill." She stares down her nose at Minna's hands, and with deft fingers strokes the back of a set of whitened knuckles. "Do be careful, sweet. We made a promise to Gertrude, and a promise cannot be broken. Whatever would she say if we did?" She looks up, their eyes meeting. They were of the same shape, the same shade of red, save for the slit pupils smoldering like twin elliptical galaxies on the brink of collapse. "What would Mio say?"

All the strength drains from her.

A million and one thoughts fly through her mind in the speed of light. _She doesn't know, does she? She doesn't know about my shoulder, doesn't know about my hand, doesn't know I almost hurt Lucchini. What if Trude tells her? What if Miyafuji-san tells her? What if Lucchini and Erica and Lynne tell her what I did? What would she say? How would she react? She'd be sad, wouldn't she? She'd be sad and angry and disappointed and very, very concerned me. She'll have every eye and ear on me if she finds out. She'll always check up on me, always make sure I'm sound in mind, body, and spirit because a half-mad leader is a lost cause and a lost cause means a blow to the war effort and then the Neuroi will win. She'll be around every corner, always watchful, always subtle, always by my side._

_(But is that so bad?)_

Her grip goes slack, allowing the air to filter into her lungs unhindered. It is as though a weight has been lifted off her chest. _But you're still here,_ she thinks, staring back at the Fetch, and she wants to crawl back in bed and wish the day would end already. _You won't leave me alone, and I wish you would go away. Forever._

"All must perish eventually," says the Fetch. "'Tis the way of life. But that does not apply to us. We stopped being human when the Neuroi fell upon Pas-de-Calais, and so long as we continue to draw breath...well, we needn't remind us. It's a very generous gift."

"I don't want it," Minna chokes out, and sits up on her haunches. Her vision blurs with tears, but they do not fall. "I want to be normal."

"We were never normal to begin with." The Fetch rises and leans in, pressing her lips against one of Minna's eyes while a hand brushes a beaded droplet quivering on the edge of the other. "What human uses magic and calls her normal? For humanity, being capable of sensing and wielding magic marks them as an aberration against the natural order of the world. By all rights the ley lines belong to the faerie folk, for they are eldest and understand the strengths and flaws behind raw magic. They have no intention of interacting with children who tamper with the planet's lifeblood and contaminate it with their vices and war machines. They are content to pass their timeless lives in the shadows, waiting for the day man is no more and the Neuroi ascend to the stars. We shall follow their example and do the same."

Minna sniffles, and trembles as a wisp of cold breath caresses her forehead. "Why do you do this to me?"

The Fetch pulls her closer, arm draped across her shoulders in a partial embrace. "We know the answer to that. We gave them to us. All we have to do is wake up and _see_."

"See what? I don't want you to hurt my friends! They're not mindless beasts for you to kill for your own pleasure!"

"We wish we would drop that dreadful 'you'," the Fetch murmurs, tiredly, and nuzzles her neck. "Why won't we accept that?"

"Because the person before me is not me! You're a fake!"

"A fake?" The Fetch pulls back and lifts Minna's chin. "We think these feelings are not real, that they are…baseless?" She draws her arm away and settles a hand above her host's heart; it reacts with a single, nervous twitch. "We can feel us. Our body knows it. Our memories know it. Mind and flesh are united as one. Why, then, do we turn the other cheek? Do we just…pretend we're not here, just a figment of our imagination? Or perhaps we don't want to remember….?"

"No," says Minna. "I remember. I remember everything. But I will say it again and no more." She snatches the shadow's wrist and tears it off her, squeezes and pinches as hard as she is able to muster. "I'm not you! I don't want to be you, and I will never be you! I don't want for theft, bloodshed, or any of that unholy pagan savagery! No matter what you say or what you do, I won't betray the person that I am and become the very thing I most definitely despise with every fiber of my being!"

The Fetch sneers. Darkness descends upon her face, sharpening the contours of her jaw and throwing open the blinds of her eyes. The light, what little there is of it, shines forth, casting a pall into ancient and terrible relief. "Bold words…but not bold enough. We are too bound to our convictions, this outdated 'code of honor', to carry out the deed."

"One of these days I will—!"

"That day will never come because we blew it when we had the chance!" the Fetch snaps. She pushes herself off the bed, throws open the drawer so quickly it nearly pops out. "Face it. Without us, we would be sitting in a padded room locked in a straitjacket rather than at a desk bullshitting our way through bureaucratic red tape and the military echelons. The 501st would not exist. Britannia would be no more."

She extracts a shirt from within and delivers it to her host. When she moves to take it the Fetch raises her arm, holding the garment just out of reach. "We need us. We can't live without us. Do we understand?"

Minna glares at her.

The Fetch chuckles. "We will. We can't run forever." She offers the shirt and Minna takes it, but she does not put it on. Her eyes remain on her, never waver. They are cold, predatory.

They are familiar.

A sliver of teeth glints in the sunlight. "We know what we must do. Do not be afraid." She tilts her head and fails to suppress a laugh.

The temperature plunges, and Minna cannot help but shiver. She slips into the shirt.

It is time to greet the new day.


End file.
